Frozen Memories
by D.F.Retha
Summary: Inquisition/Origins - SPOILERS. Amell x Cullen. Cullen x f!Trevelyan. Rated for language, sexual content and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Frozen Memories - 01**

(A _Dragon Age_ fan fiction)

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_Circle of Magi - Ferelden_

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A chill crept in, cold shadows waning in an ethereal light as the armoured figure passed by. Fingers clad in lobstered, silver steel clasped the hilt of a torch, a blue shimmer of protective magic shrouding the figure's fingers from the flame's heat. He passed, quietly, through darkened hallways lined with elegant tapestries. Each tapestry depicted an ancient battle between Andraste, her Alamarri and elven followers and the evil magisters of Tevinter during the Exalted Marches – history retold in rich cloth and embroidered gold thread from the finest weavers in Orlais. Between each tapestry, carved statues of the heroes of old held silent vigil: Andraste, Brona, Cathaire, Havard, Hessarian the Redeemed, Andraste's friend Justinia, Shartan and Calenhad, the first king of Fereldan The awesome figures stood taller than any man, brandishing real axes, broadswords, shields bearing the Chantry's holy sunburst, and poisoned spears, and clad in enamelled silverite armour from Orzammar. He'd oft seen the Tranquil polishing the enormous gauntlets, greaves and curved pauldrons to an ethereal glimmer.

Cullen Rutherford passed the heroic statues, singing the Chant of Light softly to himself; night shifts were awfully boring. Most nights, he simply walked about, checking in on sleeping mages to ensure none had slipped out to collude in secret or perform magic unsupervised. Breaking curfew had mild or severe consequences, depending on the circumstances. Enchanters enjoyed more leniencies than apprentices; catching an apprentice could result in a flogging, imprisonment for hours in the Circle dungeons, or the execution of the Rite of Tranquility.

Because they did not dream, the Tranquil were exempt from curfew. Ex-mages of serene disposition, they were a disturbing presence, but harmless besides; the Tranquil were hardly more than conscious furniture, shadows moving silently with a certain kind of purpose – a duty more profound than mere slaves.

Earlier, shortly after dinner – blackened bread, potatoes, rabbit stew and a cup of honeyed wine – Cullen descended into the armory for his longsword, _Lion's Pride_; a gift from his parents after he'd taken his vows. _Lion's Pride_ was a dragonbone sword, broad but light with a blade like glazed wine and a golden guard and carved lion's head pommel. Boiled leather strips were wrapped around the hilt, moulded slightly for a more comfortable fit for his right hand – in his left he held his large iron shield, emblazoned with a flaming sword; the heraldry of the holy Templars.

Cullen joined his fellow Templars in the Circle courtyard. Like many castles, the Circle courtyard had a cobblestone perimeter and a handful of pools; clear ponds lined with polished stones and brimming with coloured fish. Fountains made of stone provided recycled water from the lake on the other side of the Circle walls – brought in through a complex series of pipes. Autumn had arrived in full however; now the pools were all but frozen and the grass was covered in snow. Several stone benches followed the curve of the cobblestone walk, evenly spaced to enjoy the cool shade of overhanging oak trees during hot summer afternoons, and in the center of the yard, a dirt-filled fenced-in region served as the Circle's practice arena. Cullen found four other Templars there – raw recruits who'd just recently traded practice swords for steel. Another senior Templar, Ser Theodore, watched from nearby, arms crossed stiffly. As master-at-arms, Theodore trained most of the new recruits – most oft green men and women. Common folk, nobles, and orphans raised by Chantry sisters. Most recruits – besides those few grizzled soldiers who found purpose in the Maker's service after war – had never seen battle before.

A large man, Ser Theodore was an intimidating sight. A beard hid most of his leathery skin behind black, coarse hair. A deep, faded scar left one eye milky white and his nose one nostril short. Cullen heard that he'd lost the eye in a fight with apostate blood mages and an arcane horror - a demon of pride that had possessed a dead mage. His remaining eye was almost black and hard. Ser Theodore loved the Maker more than anyone else, but hated mages and made the fact known.

"Cullen," growled Ser Theodore behind his beard. "Come show these children how real Templars fight."

Cullen picked up an edgeless steel sword, as _Lion's Pride_ could have torn a brother's arm clean off, or else left a nasty scar. Although heavier, Cullen had trained with similar weapons before; his strikes would be slower, but no less powerful. "Come, the lot of you," he said, and brought his shield up.

"All four?" asked one recruit. "On one?"

Cullen dispelled the assumption that four on one was somehow unfair; a seasoned Templar did not require fair odds. He shifted his shoulder slightly. Fading sunlight glimmered off the flaming sword blazoned on his shield and Cullen saw three of the four recruits squint against the glare. He leaped forward, slashing at one recruit's shoulder. Pauldrons protected the arms from direct dismemberment, so Cullen slammed the blunt face of his sword against the curved silverite, the vibrations causing the recruit to drop his sword. As he was shaking the discomfort from his arm, Cullen slammed his shield into the boy's chest, driving him into the dirt, and kicked his sword aside.

"Dead!" said Ser Theodore. In the real world, an enemy would bashed his skull in with a boot, or the edge of his shield.

Cullen raised his shield again as the remaining three boys gathered their wits and attacked him simultaneously. Cullen deflected the first slash with his shield, then brought his sword up and countered with a jab. _Lion's Pride_ would have pierced the boy's heart, cutting into the boiled leather and chainmail beneath his arm like paper. But his practice sword turned off the breastplate, catching between the boy's gauntlet and his shield. Cullen dropped his sword and spun, throwing his own shield up across his back to drive off another blow meant to colour his blonde curls red. He leaped the next recruit's blade; he stumbled and Cullen drove his boot into the back of his knees. If this was anything but practice, Cullen would have snapped the boy's neck. He shoved him into the dirt, face-first, instead.

The last two recruits were attempting to flank him, but Cullen had put the setting sun behind him and he saw their dancing shadows in the twilight before he heard the gravel pop beneath their boots. Cullen dove forwards, listening as the two recruits slammed together behind him. Blood poured from one recruit's nose and he doubled over, clawing his face. The other stood up, shaking the collision off and came at Cullen, driving him back, cutting left, right, left, right. He was fast, but Cullen moved sideways, avoiding each blow, giving ground before he bulled into the recruit and knocked him over. The two men rolled in the dirt, kicking, punching and clawing at each other until Cullen ended up on top, a dirk pressed against the boy's soft throat.

"And dead," said Theodore.

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A few hours later, every mage and most Templars were asleep, leaving the Circle Tower quiet, still. Cullen had the first floor, where apprentices slept, cramped in chambers cluttered with beds – some stacked atop each other – bookshelves and chests of the apprentices' few possessions. Mages oft could not bring much from home – a few mementos of their families, perhaps – if they ever had homes: a book, locket or other trinket and sometimes – _sometimes_ – a cat, owl, rat or raven.

Chantry officials provided customary robes for the apprentices but staves were distinctive. Elvish and human Tranquil designed personalized staves for their fellow mages and each mage chose her or his own staff based on their abilities after entering the Circle. Although any mage could perform any given magical task, theoretically, mages specialized in particular fields of study like scholars: elements, healing, herbalism, nature, spirits, and occasionally war. As Cullen passed the beds of sleeping apprentices, he counted his charges: five healers, a city elf with a Dalish ironbark staff, and an ambitious nobleman's son with a silversite staff forged into the entangled neck of a dual-headed serpent.

An apprentice was missing: Solona Amell – an elementalist. Cullen frowned, cursing quietly, "By the Maker, Solona…"

Cullen found her in the courtyard garden just off the training arena, building snow towers. A full moon shimmered above, behind delicate grey clouds, making the fresh snow shine silver and hoarfrost painting the naked trees white. A gentle snow fell, frost glittered on the coloured glass windows and a cold wind blew down from the Frostback Mountains in the West, howling mournfully.

Cullen shivered beneath his fennec fur cloak. He stopped and watched Solona work, his hot breath forming plumes of white around his mouth and nose. She was dressed in her lavender night robes and little more. A dusting of snowflakes sparkled like diamonds in her loose ringlets and her small breasts pressed against her loose robes, firm from the cold. Cullen saw Solona make several snowballs, packing them together, smoothing them until they were flawlessly round. She built cubes, cylinders and long rectangles she carved into archways, crenellations and ramparts, towers, turrets and a castle with inner and outer walls. Solona added blades of frosted grass, black dirt and small twigs as barricades, bridges and gates and divided her snow city into pyramid-structured districts with all the best castles on the highest pyramid and hovels on the lowest. She used bark for merchant stands and larger sticks for trees and bits of cloth for banners hanging off bulwarks. Finally, she built large, thick walls around the entire thing, arched gates and enormous figures bound in chains. Bark boats with cloth sails docked outside the city walls an on the far side, Solona built mountains of different sizes.

Cullen saw Solona channel magic from the Fade into her snow city, pouring water into the aqueducts, lakes and rivers she'd built into the mountain passes. Her magic kept the water flowing freely rather than freezing in the cold. Cullen gripped his sword tightly – a habit – and his boots crunched snow as he came forward.

"Good night, Cullen." Solona glanced up and smiled sweetly. Cullen knew she'd felt him watching but didn't seem to care that he'd seen her performing magic.

"It's late," he said, feeling his cheeks flush. He hoped he sounded as firm as he intended.

"I see that." She smoothed the top of one tower with her open palm. "Do you like my city?"

Cullen moved around the city walls, admiring the archways and parapets and banners flapping in the breeze. His armor clinked together as he moved, echoing in the empty yard. "It's lovely, Solona."

"Come, have a closer look." The mage reached for her sentry's arm and brought him down gently into the cool snow beside her, close enough that their thighs touched. Cullen felt the chill in his knees, and his robes left scarlet stains in the fresh snow; blood red. A channel of magic moved about him, orange tendrils creeping in between chainmail and leather and lobstered steel. He felt surprisingly warm and droplets fell from his armour as flakes melted. In the flaming light of the torches, Cullen's eyes became curious amber pools and he looked at her for excuse or explanation. She simply smiled again and gave his arm a fond squeeze.

Cullen's face grew hot, though he could not pull away from her. He liked being close, feeling her magic envelope him like a lover's tender embrace. "Forgive me, Solona, but…" Cullen started.

"It's Kirkwall." Among the largest city-state of the Free Marches, Kirkwall was once the center of the Imperium's slave trade. A magister named Emerius founded the City of Chains during the Imperium's rule, supplying massive quantities of jet stone for Minrathous temples. After bloody revolts sometime around 25: Ancient, Emerius' city became known as Kirkwall and eventually suffered the occupation of Qunari raiders for four years before Chevalier Michel Lafille, of Orlais, liberated its people and became the city's first Viscount. In the early years of the Blessed Age – before Orlais conquered Ferelden – Kirkwall rebelled against her occupants once again, and became a free-governing state, beside cities Kaiten, Ostwick, Starkhaven and Tantervile in the Free Marches.

She fingered one of the banners hanging from the battlements of the largest tower. "Here's Hightown; the Chantry's here near Viscount's Keep. There's a brothel here, called the Blooming Rose. The city walls are impregnable from the east, north and west, and most people feel pretty safe since the commonfolk live down here in Lowtown and can only access Hightown by scaling these narrow stairs. Any archer worth his piss could have a shaft through a commoner's eye before he reached the top.

"My parents once owned an estate here in Hightown. The Amells are a highly respected family – one of the wealthiest in Kirkwall, truly. Before Mother bore me, her uncle, Aristide, held the greatest influence over the city; many nobles believed he'd become the next viscount after Perrin Threnhold attempted to expel the Templars. But my birth changed everything... Had my abilities come from my father or mother? Did it even matter? My family's reputation was destroyed; if one child could be born magic, then so too could others."

She licked snowflakes from her lips and for a moment, he imagined kissing her. She was a beautiful mage, and Cullen fancied her, but fornicating with a mage…It was against Chantry law.

"Every Firstfall, my parents bought me and my siblings elaborate masks from Orlais for Satinalia. I loved dressing up for the ball; my favourite mask was…was…" She sighed. "Cullen I can't even begin to describe how lovely it was." In Orlais, nobles wore beautiful masks passed down from parents to children, specifically designed in animalistic or fantastic motifs. A lord's bannermen household, knights and other vassals wore more simplistic adaptations of the lord's mask – a sign of subordination. Commonfolk wore gaudy or otherwise plain masks of iron or painted plaster.

Closing her eyes, Solona pictured her mask vividly: a full mask of porcelain crafted into a bird-like visage with an amethyst beak edged in crisscrossing gold latticework like thin, twisting vines. Amethyst dust glittered on its lips and emeralds sparkled along its brow, cheeks and chin midst enamelled gold metalwork. A crown of large, lavender peacock feathers framed it like a lion's mane.

"I've not seen Kirkwall in years, but every winter, I remember Satinalia – and how all the city's nobles would gather to dance and feast as snow fell outside."

Cullen noticed that as Solona spoke, her voice grew soft and her eyes sparkled like sad sapphires. Circle mages could not leave the Tower unless granted special permission in times of war – and only then if they were Enchanters. Once the war concluded, the mages were expected to return to their Towers lest they be branded apostates. Because of the Amell family status, her parents could not hide their children's magical abilities. Each of Solona's brothers and sisters were given to a Circle Tower in Thedas. Chantry law prevented families from having relationships and correspondence between Circles – except between Enchanters of the College of Magi – was difficult in the best circumstances. Solona had not spoken with her parents or siblings since being sent to Ferelden. She missed them.

"I'm sorry," Cullen said, feeling like he should say something but not knowing what.

Cullen's family had been common folk, from Honnleath in southwestern Ferelden. His siblings – a brother and a couple sisters – were all older and would eventually inherit what few lands and titles his parents possessed, becoming ladies and lords and knights in service to Ferelden's king. After Cullen begged the local Templars, they approached his parents about his joining the Order and they accepted, sending Cullen off shortly after his name-day. A few senior Templars advised him against joining so young but Cullen desired nothing else – he loved the Chantry, and the Maker, more than lands, titles or women.

"Aye, but have you ever had a lover, boy? Ever kissed a beautiful girl?" one Templar asked. "Ever felt a fair maiden's skin against yours?" Cullen had been thirteen when he left home – almost a man grown, in many respects. But he'd been ever shy around girls and blushed at profane speech. He once saw whores loitering near the gallows in Honnleath; old, ugly wenches dressed in rags. "A copper for a blow," she'd slurred. Cullen's face had flushed like ripe tomatoes and made the whore cackle, her mouth filled with broken, rotted teeth.

Chantry law didn't forbid marriage or relations, but discouraged them and contact with family was all but impossible, for they lived outside the Circle and Templars could seldom leave their charges. Faith, honour and loyalty mattered above all else and, as it was oft said, the bane of honour – the death of duty – was love.

So Cullen ignored the female mages brought into the Circle – mostly children themselves – and barely corresponded with his own family. He received a few letters occasionally, but rarely responded, much to his sister, Mia's, resentment. Before the Circle, his life consisted of education – Chantry law, history, magic and the Fade – meditation and training in monastic refuges. A calling for many, serving the Chantry lent little time to attend balls, entertain or fall in love.

"I'm not so lonely," Solona said softly, "now that I'm with you."

Cullen had been in the dining hall the morning Solona came into the Circle for the first time and had not noticed her, small as she was. A child, frightened and weary, her Templar escorts brought her in in iron tethers marked with lyrium runes to dispel her magic. Solona was cold and covered in dirt from her travels, and fresh tears carved lines down her cheeks. Ferelden was a cold, damp country known for its rainy summers and bitter cold winters. In the Circle's dining hall – a ball-vaulted chamber on the first floor large enough for half a hundred benches - there were a dozen hearths built into the curved walls, giving off a comforting heat made more so by the dozens of bodies crammed onto the benches. Mages in their coloured robes sat at benches in the middle, encompassed on all sides by fearsome-looking Templars. Few noticed the child come in – a few mages and a couple of the newer Templars but even they forgot her soon enough.

After being introduced to a group of older mages sitting at a long table high on a dais – among them First Enchanter Irving, the Circle's highest authority – a drowsy-looking Tranquil led Solona and a couple female Templars down into the basement bathes. She stripped the child down, hardly noticing the child's tears, and scrubbed the dirt from her skin with a brazen cloth. Scrubbing her raw, the Tranquil dressed her in blue robes embroidered with cerulean flowers and a belt of chain-linked gold, a Circle pendant hanging in the center. Her robes were heavier than anything she'd worn in Kirkwall, lined with fennec fur for more warmth.

Circle life consisted of magical practice and theory. In the afternoons, enchanters taught the apprentices history and magic and oft retold of the dangers of blood magic and demonic possession by referencing the blood mages of old Tevinter, who'd entered the Black City, corrupting it and creating the Blights. Chantry lore said the blood magisters became Darkspawn, particularly the Archdemons that lead the Blights that ravage Thedas every few hundred years. Because of mages, the doors to Heaven were closed forever.

After dinner, enchanters trained apprentice mages in large halls, students taking turns casting elemental and healing spells, supervised by groups of Templars.

A few months after arriving, Cullen found Solona weeping. A few apprentices complained that they could not sleep; most shouted at her. A handful threw books, jars, staves and discarded robes. Once, one particularly angry apprentice set her sheets afire but claimed, during questioning, that a candle had fallen over. He'd spent a day in the Circle dungeons.

"Do not fear me, Solona; I'll not harm you," he'd said when he'd stopped beside her bed. Cullen had not been much older, yet in that moment he felt himself a man, wise beyond his years.

"Do not fear the Circle, either. The Chantry says that magic must serve mankind, not rule him. We are corrupted creatures made of blood and flesh. How many men have honour and loyalty and how many claim such before casting it all aside for greed and lust? How many men are brave – but only if there is nothing to fear? Magic can do great things – can cure the ailing and heal the wounded. But magic can do great evil too and people are desperate and weak. How long can good mages deny temptation – especially in this cruel world? A demon may offer power and that can sound all well and good in a moment of weakness but demons never give more than they can take.

"Being here in the Circle…it's not easy leaving behind family and freedom, I know. I left my family too and I miss them. But duty requires sacrifice. Is it not the duty of mages to serve? To Protect those who need them? And how can mages protect others if they cannot protect themselves?"

Cullen's kindness comforted her and Solona soon found herself falling in love with her protector. Other mages said that Templars were like wolves around a flock of sheep. But Solona thought of them as shepherds keeping the real wolves at bay.

Cullen's face felt hotter than ever. He looked away, embarrassed. "Don't say such things."

"Cullen…?"

"Chantry law…" he started. "Chantry law states…"

_Chantry law states Templars cannot love mages…_ But even as Cullen reminded himself of that, his lips found hers, swallowing those thoughts. He kissed her once, softly, then twice, then trice. Solona started trembling but did not pull away. Her arms slipped beneath his cloak, drawing him in and Cullen draped his fur-lined mantle over her shoulders against the chill. She tasted of sweet wine and her skin smelled like Royal Elfroot. He placed an armoured hand on Solona's breast.

"Cullen," she whispered between kisses. "I love you."

He pulled back slightly, and parted his lips but could not say the words. "I..."

"It's okay." She traced his lips with her thumb and kissed him sweetly. The mage gently pushed him into the fluffy snow and climbed into his lap. He lifted her robes and caressed her milky thigh as he kissed her over and over. She was not wearing any smallclothes underneath. Cullen groaned, feeling his body responding as she slid her hips against his scarlet skirts. Solona started tugging at his breeches, loosening the belts, buckles and laces and grabbed his manhood though his smallclothes. And he nearly allowed her to guide him inside her, knowing that he needed this: he loved her too.

He thought of the senior Templars that once warned against joining so young. He'd not believed them then.

_But Chantry law states Templars cannot love mages... _

"No! Solona, stop. Stop!" He pushed her off his lap. Solona's beautiful brows came together, confused, and her blue eyes grew shiny. "I thought…"

"Chantry law states – "

"Chantry law has no restrictions against love or sex," came her bitter reply. She smoothed her robed about her and rose swiftly, angered that he was hiding his weakness behind Chantry law. He was afraid; craven in love but not in war. All because she was a _mage _and Chantry law claimed mages were dangerous. "Mages meet in secret all the time. And Templars too. I've seen them."

"Do not speak of other mages or Templars. I do not love you and I apologize if I mislead you."

His words cut deep. He did not mean them, truly. "Cullen, don't…please don't say such things. I know better than that. I love you and I know, deep in your heart you love me too."

Cullen kept his temper. "I'm so sorry, but I do not. Now go. It's late and I'll not find you about passed curfew ever again; is that understood?"

"Cullen – "

Cullen's eyes grew hard. "Is that _understood_?"

Cullen's hand came to rest upon his lion's head pommel; if intentional, Solona did not know. Never had he given her reason to be frightened of him but his dark eyes and hard tone left little room to debate. He loved the Chantry more than he loved her; inside she knew she could not fault him for that.

"Good night, _ser_." Solona spun on one heel, stalking back into the Circle Tower.

After she'd gone, he started trembling – angry, frightened, sad. He stared at her city of snow, her Kirkwall; her home. He roared, his screams echoing off the cool, smooth stone of the courtyard walls, and crushed the castles. He crushed Hightown, levelled Lowtown and kicked the chains from the city walls. Banners fluttered away in the wind. He knocked the heads off the enormous figures flanking Kirkwall's gatehouse, he stomped on Viscount's Keep, razing the high ramparts and pointed spires, and he destroyed the Vimmark Mountains north of the city in a flurry of white. Her magic lakes, rivers and streams burst over their banks like bubbles, freezing into clear ice.

_I must remain strong_, Cullen thought, breathless. _Chantry law states Templars cannot love mages. Maker, forgive me; I cannot love her and be true and if I cannot be true…I'm nothing._

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/Frozen Memories – 01

**Disclaimer: **Amell, Cullen and all _Dragon Age_-related characters are property of BioWare and EA Games.


	2. Chapter 2

**Frozen Memories - 02**

(A _Dragon Age_ fan fiction)**  
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_Circle of Magi - Ferelden_

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At dawn, Cullen rose slowly, woken by the rampant rapping of Commander Greagoir passing his quarters. However, in truth, Cullen had not slept all evening; he simply stared at a candle, praying that dawn never came. _If I never sleep_, he thought_, I'll never wake and find the risen sun. _

Cullen's eyes felt dry; he knew they were likely red and massaged them with his palms.

He shared his quarters with a dozen other Templars in the basement of the Circle Tower. Like the Tower above – comprised of several floors for the different echelons of magi - the basement comprised of four levels: the armory, barracks and bathhouse on one, a Chantry below that, a recreational space for off-duty Templars – to drink, play card games and rest – on the third and below them all, deep in the belly of the earth, the Circle dungeons; cramped, damp, dark cells, sconces for light – for there were no windows – and a chamber filled with brands of lyrium, caskets lined with iron spikes, racks and all manner of cruel instruments for torture.

Each morning, they were woken by the senior Templars and broke their fast in the dining hall, daytime patrols drinking lyrium and donning steel in the armory beforehand. Evening patrols carried daggers in leather sheathes and bottles of lyrium deep in their cloak pockets but no one in recent Circle memory ever recalled having need of them. After breakfast, evening patrols slept for hours more, before being roused again for afternoon practice and supper.

Cullen followed his fellow Templars into the bathhouse, a circular room in the basement below the dining hall. Banners hung from the walls, bearing the blazing sword of the Templars in silver on a field of scarlet. Hearths kept the water coming in from the lake outside warm in dozens of deep, stone tubs. A hazy steam hung in the air, smelling of the herbs and spices that a couple elven Tranquil dropped into the water. Perfumes, oils and soaps were a commodity the Circle could seldom afford; herbs and exotic spices from Orlais, Rivain and the Free Marches kept the dank odours of blood, soil and sweat at bay – although foreigner mages and Templars brought into the Circle oft still complained Fereldens smelled. _Dog lords_, they called them, not simply because of the great Mabari war hounds many a lord kept in his kennels.

Cullen disrobed, his grey tunic damp with night sweat, and slipped into one of the tubs. A dozen other Templars accompanied him; men covered in coarse hair and faded scars. Like mages, Templars came from everywhere in Thedas, not simply the country of one's birth. Serving the Maker meant going where one was needed, not purely where one was comfortable. Thus, some Templars were accented Antivans, dark-skinned Rivani's or the Game-playing Orlesians, pale as driven snow. Before joining, some Templars were commonfolk, descendants of grand names or mercenaries and thieves, finding redemption for past sins in the Maker's service. A few bore brands on their arms, chests and thighs; former slaves from Tevinter bearing the mark of their former masters. A dozen others had tattoos: dragons, griffons, oak trees and indecipherable symbols mimicking the Dalish tradition.

Cullen half-listened as his brothers discussed dreams and exchanged japes, their voices echoing off the hard, stone walls and melding together – a deep rumble. He leaned back, rinsing the dirt, dust and sweat from his blonde curls and combing the knots out with his long fingers. He closed his eyes, pinched his nose, and let the warm water flow over him, his skin burning. He held his breath, reciting:

_Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies Eternity…_

Darkness embraced him; he opened his mouth and bubbles burst forth and he sat up, choking down a mournful scream. A black-haired, caramel-skinned Antivan slapped him on the back, laughing at his foolishness; he coughed up mouthfuls of bath water and brushed damp curls from his eyes. His face was pink-purple and splotchy in places and his eyes suddenly swelled, his vision blurry and burning. He moved away from his companions, getting out of the tub and drying off with a coarse towel before they could his tears. A grown man – a _Templar _– did not weep.

Cullen dressed in fitted grey breeches made of ram's wool, a chainmail surcoat and a crimson tunic with gold trim and a five-pointed sunburst along the bottom hem, a crimson belt cinched about his slender waist. Carroll, a bleary-eyed man, helped him into his silverite breastplate, gauntlets and greaves. He pulled on straps, and buckled snaps and fixed his pauldrons on his shoulders. Carroll was a dim-witted Templar a few years older than Cullen, left brain-damaged after consuming lyrium in larger quantities than was allowed. Although distilled lyrium did not _give_ Templars their anti-magic powers, it made them more potent and lyrium addiction was a constant risk; but most Templars did not feel its effects for many years. Carroll had somehow consumed much and more and now seemed a child more than a man, easily manipulated and of little use. But he was a brother still and served simply.

Cullen found _Lion's Pride_ in the armory, as per usual, and sharpened the burgundy edge with a black whetstone; a deadly edge on a deadly sword. He prayed he'd no reason to use it today.

In the dining hall, Cullen forced himself to break his fast on bread, cheese and honeyed milk, but everything made him ill. He looked about the dining hall, scanning the faces of the mages, Templars and Tranquil and saw Solona in the middle with another apprentice mage, Jowan. Perhaps sensing Cullen's gaze, Solona looked up but her face quickly darkened; she was angry still – and Cullen did not blame her.

He'd not seen or spoken with her since that dark night in the Circle courtyard, dusted in snow. But today…

Cullen rose and crossed the dining hall, his breakfast forgotten. He moved passed Solona's table and in the crowded hall, he stumbled. A few mages hid smirks – they could not laugh openly, surrounded by so many swords – and a senior Templar snorted, spitting bread crumbs into the face of the man sitting across from him. A brief silence fell. Solona stared; big blue eyes showing a glimmer of the love she still felt for him. Cullen straightened his skirts and bolted from the hall, humiliated.

He hid in the library, perusing a book on elven mythology but did not comprehend the words. An elderly Tranquil – a grey-skinned woman he'd seen arranging books more oft than not – was busy dusting thick tomes high on a ladder and paid him no notice. A couple apprentice mages glanced his way warily, drawn to _Lion's Pride_ about his waist and quickly abandoned their work pretending to be busy elsewhere.

A few long moments passed before she appeared, eyeing him suspiciously. She was beautiful, dressed elegantly in a ceremonial green robe and a leather bodice embroidered with lavender stones and cloth of gold trim. A belt of gold links cinched her small waist, accentuated by the Circle pendant in the center. Fennec fur lined the heavy hood draped from her shoulders, pinned with a golden Chantry sunburst.

He saw she had his note – a hastily scribed message on discarded parchment; he knew she'd not speak with him otherwise and dropped it at her feet when he'd stumbled.

Cullen stepped forward slightly and seeing that she was not running, drew her against him and kissed her lips softly, once, twice. Solona yielded and opened her mouth, feeling his tongue against her own. Cullen's fingers brushed her breasts lightly, making her shiver beneath her cloak.

"I'm sorry," he said afterwards. Brown ringlets framed her face; he brushed one aside gently. "I did not mean the things I said."

"I'm sorry too. I understand why you…" She turned away so he would not see her tears. "I know we can't ever be lovers. Chantry law forbids it – not between Templars and commonfolk perhaps – were that we were commonfolk…

"And I know we can't even hide it. Marker forbid I ever found myself with child – if that child were born magic…I could not bear it. I know you are doing your duty and I realize how much your faith means to you. Faith is part of who you are; part of what I love about you. I'd no right to expect to be placed above that. And I'm sorry."

She smiled and dried her eyes. "I'd like to be friends…if you'd have me still?"

"Always," Cullen smiled and cupped her face with an armoured hand; it was cold on her skin, but Solona felt the warmth beneath. "I love you and I'll always be here for you." He kissed her softly again, knowing it was like to be the last time. His expression soured suddenly and he stepped back. "I must needs tell you…I never asked for this, but I've been summoned to your Harrowing today. Greagoir has chosen me to...neutralize you - should you fail today."

"And would you?"

Cullen hesitated before responding. Could he tell her the truth? In the end, he said, "I...I serve the Chantry and the Maker, Solona."

A pained expression slipped across her face; she'd clearly not expecting his news. But she smiled. "We all must do our duty, I suppose."

A Harrowing was an apprentice mage's final test. If successful, apprentices could remain simple mages or acquire students and become enchanters – junior or senior and eventually First or Grand in old age, managing their own Towers. But Harrowings were also difficult examinations. Harrowings saw apprentices entering the Fade, physically, and confronting demons of lust, pride and rage. If the apprentice could not defeat the demon, he or she became known as an abomination and served as a living vessel for the demon in the real world. Supervising Templars would be required by Chantry law to destroy the demon in its newly possessed body.

Exemption from Harrowings required apprentices to accept the Rite of Tranquility voluntarily, abandoning their dreams, emotions and magical powers for freedom from demonic possession. A brand of concentrated lyrium was burned onto the apprentice's brow, destroying their connection to the Fade forever and leaving them Tranquil. For some, the eternal freedom from possession made the idea of Tranquility a blessing; but for most, the Rite was a curse – a punishment.

"Be careful Solona," Cullen said desperately. "Do not make me kill you."

"Cullen, don't worry." Smiling, Solona brushed her finger down his cheek. "I've no plans to die today."

.

Afternoon sunlight came in through coloured glass windows with floral latticework, dancing on the tiled floor in rainbows. Flames flickered in sconces on the columns holding up a barrel-vaulted ceiling of ornate Andrastian carvings. Between each column stood a bowl of glowing lyrium, as much for the apprentice mages as for the supervising Templars. Cullen stood between Greagoir, Irving and Ser Theodore, fingering his longsword nervously. A fourth rookie Templar escorted Solona into the Harrowing chamber, his face hidden behind a helmet of sculpted silverite.

Greagoir and Irving took turns explaining how the Harrowing worked and what would happen if Solona failed in her task. Cullen felt her gaze on him, a flash of nervousness – only briefly, so the others would not notice. He nodded once, risking a small smile of reassurance. Cullen felt ill. His muscles tightened almost painfully beneath his armour, augmented by lyrium. And his fingertips tingled with dispelling magic; Cullen gripped his sword to keep them from trembling. Deep in his breast, his heart tittered.

As Greagoir and Irving settled back between Cullen, Ser Theodore and the rookie Templar, the Harrowing officially began. Her first task required Solona to display the magic she'd been perfecting since joining the Circle. Demonic possession was not the only risk to befall mages; many children discovered their magical powers accidentally, after burning farmsteads, freezing crops in summer and occasionally, killing someone. Controlling one's powers ensured future accidents never occurred within (or without) Circle walls.

Gripping her staff tightly, Solona started by channeling magic from the Fade; the blue crystal on the end of her staff began glowing. Irving presented her with a bird, crippled after crashing into the window a day passed. She cupped the bird in her palm and closed her eyes; her lips moved silently and glittering green light formed on the bird's broken wing, binding bone beneath feather. Afterwards, the bird chirped and darted into the latticework, singing sweetly – as if it had never been injured.

Every mage needed healing magic, but Solona was an elementalist; her powers resided in nature – earth, fire, ice, lightening, the wind. A chest of black dirt lay at her feet. She felt the buried seeds within and channeled magic around them. At first, nothing happened; soon, the seeds split, sprouting roots thin as hairs. Only Solona knew that they had spouted inside the chest – she could see them in the back of her mind, stretching and twisting in the confines of the chest. A flower grew from the black dirt, growing larger, thicker. A branch budded from one side, then another, then another. Beneath, the chest creaked and warped and finally broke, dirt and roots spilling onto the floor. The tree continued growing, guided by her magic. Branches reached like the crooked fingers of a crone for the ceiling. The chamber dimmed as leaves blossomed, shrouding the firelight on the walls. At last, oranges sprang from little white flowers, ripening and falling onto the floor with a sickening _squish_.

Fingers numbing, her magic formed icy roots that moved with a purpose, like malicious worms eating her tree from the inside out. Frost killed the blossoms, changing fruit into fragile stones that shattered upon hitting the floor. Leaved withered. Her tree was dead in moments; a grey, sickly thing.

Arms raised, a gust of icy wind from Solona's staff extinguished the flames on the walls, leaving them all in darkness. Fire flowered in Solona's hand, hovering just above her skin and bathing her face in orange light. She did not feel the flame's heat burning her skin. A ball fired into each sconce reignited the kindling – grass, leaves and twigs – and brought light back into the chamber.

Irving nodded solemnly. The first part of the Harrowing was over; Solona must needs enter the Fade now and face her demons. The confidence Cullen had seen in those beautiful, blue eyes faded; fear formed in its place.

Approaching one of the fonts scattered about the chamber, she brushed her fingers over the glowing lyrium. A clap of light – like lightning – sprang from the font; for some time, Cullen squinted, blinded. Moments passed; the bright light faded. He blinked several times and saw Solona sway. Her eyes rolled back into her skull, leaving only the whites and she fell still in trance. Cullen prayed for her – _Maker, grant her the strength to endure this trial_.

An hour passed. Daylight waned and shadows crawled like monsters across the tiles. Cullen's fingers rapped the hilt of _Lion's Pride_. He reminded himself that time did not pass in the Fade the same way as it did in the real world. An hour in the real world could pass as but a minute in the Fade – or the other way around. But eventually, Greagoir and the senior Templars would decide that enough time had passed and presume Solona had failed. She would be killed.

Another half hour passed before the apprentice finally moved. She shifted slightly, blinking. But the blue glow in her eyes remained. Cullen shivered suddenly. He was cold - colder than he should've been inside - and noticed plumes forming over his nose as he breathed. He looked about; frost slithered across the windows, and snow was falling indoors. The other Templars noticed too. Something was wrong.

Fissures of lyrium spidered down her face like cracks in glass. She started laughing quietly, deep in the back of her throat. The voice crawling from her throat was not the soft, sweet voice Cullen knew and loved, but something darker, deep and rough – like stones grinding together. _Maker, no…Solona!_

"Cullen!" Greagoir shouted.

Cullen's eyes burned, but he gnashed his teeth together and drew _Lion's Pride. _The abomination in Solona's skin turned and grinned – but the grin looked grotesque somehow. The abomination fired ice spears at him, but he raised his shield and each spear crashed into the burning sword on the front, making deep dents in solid steel and chipping the crimson paint.

Greagoir, Ser Theodre and the rookie Templar flanked her, each glowing with dispelling magic. The abomination summoned a mighty tempest and knocked the other Templars back before they could dispel her magic. Cullen hid behind his shield as much for protection from the wind as from her power. He slipped on the icy tiles as he crept forwards in the direction he still thought she stood. Frost made his lashes stick together as he blinked; ice coated his beard, making it white as a bear's fur. Cullen's face had gone numb, his lips were blue, cracked and bleeding; he could taste the blood on his tongue. But finally he saw her, just a blurry, grey silhouette at first, then a beautiful monstrosity.

"_Cullen, don't worry. I've no plans to die today."_

_Fight, Solona._ Cullen thought bitterly_. Do not make me kill you. Fight this!_

But deep inside, he knew. The woman he loved was already gone. He'd never again feel her lips on his or sit with her in the courtyard, making cities in the midnight snow.

Cullen dropped his shield and dispelled the abominations magic with a blast of blue-hued energy. She stumbled, her magic cut off for just a moment; dispel spells did not last long but enough for Cullen. He sprang forward – _Maker, forgive me_… - and drew her against him, as he'd done earlier in the library; this time, as he held her, his lips never found hers; his fingers never brushed her breast. Instead, _Lion's Pride_ devoured it. She coughed, covering his cheeks in blood and spittle. The blue glow faded from her eyes. The sleet and snow and fierce winds died, leaving the chamber cold and desolate as the Frostback Mountains in winter.

He cradled her in his lap like a child.

"Cullen…?" She trembled and he held her hand tightly. Whatever demon had possessed her was gone now, for its path into the real world had severed. Blood seeped onto the Templar's tunic, leaving scarlet smears. A cry fluttered over her lips; she was in pain. "Cullen!" _Help me..._ said the glimmer in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry…" he said. Solona closed her eyes; he felt the life slip from her like seeds in the wind. Cullen did not cry for her – not now; perhaps tonight, when no one could see his tears. Cullen cupped her face gently and smiled:

"_Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's Right Hand and be Forgiven._

"And know that I loved you," he said.

.

After the failed Harrowing, the Tranquil brought her body down into the basement, cleaned her and dressed her in funeral robes and laid her out upon a dais in the Circle's Chantry, a large chamber housing enough pews for the Circle's devout and a cgolden icon of Andraste at one end, her arms lifted up in reverence. A bowl of sacred flames lay at her feet; the Tranquil kept the flames lit day and night, adding fragrant oils and kindling every hour or so. Embroidered tapestries bearing the Chantry sunburst in gold on russet, Circle heraldry and flaming sword of the Templars in silver on scarlet hung on the walls. A casket made of polished rosewood lay on the floor near Andraste's flames. Inside the casket, Solona's body lay, fingers laced loosely atop her breast.

Earlier, the Tranquil dressed her in her loveliest robes – a cream dress embroidered in gold and ivory pearls around her bosom, flowing, misty sleeves of pale silk and a heavy, white wolf pelt she'd brought from Kirkwall; the Amell family heraldry embellished on the back in black. A braid of chestnut crowned her brow, cloth of gold strands woven amidst brown curls. She looked oddly beautiful, Cullen thought.

He insisted on spending the entire evening holding vigil by her side. A human Tranquil named Owain brought him his supper – ale, beef stew, cheese and a heel of blackened bread – but he did not eat; eventually rats started chewing on the bread and cheese. Protective spells kept spirits from possessing Solona's body – changing her into an evil, powerful Reverent. But Cullen kept watch even still. _She's suffered enough, _he thought.

Candles cast long shadows on the floor and spilled wax congealed on the floor, marking the passing time. At dawn, Greagoir brought him a heel of bread and a cup of honeyed milk. "Cullen; eat," he said. But Cullen didn't seem to hear him.

"_O Creator, see me kneel: For I walk only where You would bid me, stand only in places You have blessed, sing only the words You place in my throat_." he prayed, hoping the senior Templar would grow impatient and go. But Greagoir remained.

"Cullen, I sympathize with you," he said solemnly.

"_My Maker, know my heart. Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your Endless Pride_."

"I know – I understand – your despair."

"_My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your Grace. Touch me with fire, that I might be cleansed._" Could he? he wondered. Even if he knew of Cullen's feelings for Solona, Greagoir had never slain the only person he loved in this world. Greagoir couldn't understand Cullen's despair even if he tried. "_Tell me I have sung to Your Approval_."

"Cullen!" Greagoir snapped; the candles shivered.

Cullen dropped his clasped hands and rose slowly. "Forgive me, Ser. I've never…I've killed men before – bandits, mostly. A couple _malificar_, once. But Circle mages…I never thought…"

Greagoir nodded. "Circle mages seldom give us reason to do them any harm. Chantry Law forbids forming relationships with mages, though it's not uncommon for mages and Templars to grow – for lack of a better word – _fond_ of one another. But killing mages is not our duty; protecting them from themselves – and countless others from them – _is_. Killing is sometimes necessary, t'is true. But remember, Cullen, that you are a champion of the Maker; all that we – that _you_ – do is His Will."

Andraste's face looked upwards, but Cullen searched the contours of her visage for guidance. He'd prayed all day and night and found no solace from her or from the Maker. But perhaps…perhaps he was blaming himself unnecessarily. Andraste's human husband, Maferath, betrayed her for power. Tevinter burned her because they feared her - feared losing their power. _Solona betrayed me_, Cullen thought, curling his fingers into firsts. _I only did the Maker's Will._ _But she accepted the demon's power and became a monster - she made me do it! _

Bowing slightly, Cullen nodded and crossed his arms in the traditional Chantry salute. "Forgive me, Ser, for troubling you. I've not been myself as late. But my vigil has left me renewed. Andraste's flames have cleansed me and I am reborn – better, stronger, than before." _Maker, harden my heart, that I may never again falter in my tasks. Harden my heart, that I may never again know love_…

.

A day later, they cremated Solona's body in the Circle courtyard on a pyre made of frosted kindling. A gentle snow started around midday, dancing in a soft wind, and continued falling now, covering Solona's face in a glittering icy mask. As customary, every mage, Templar and Tranquil attended, covered in capes and cloaks and heavy pelts. He knew each of the attending mages by name: Abernath and Anders – a cynical mage who'd attempted escape from the Circle Tower six times – and his close friend Karl. Cera, Eadric, an anxious little mage named Florian, Godwin, Ines the botanist, Leorah, Niall, Petra, apprentices Keili, Kinnon and Jowan, a blind mage called Sweeny, Torrin, Uldred and a grey-haired older woman named Wynne. Furry little creatures huddled together for warmth encircled on all sides by Templars. Cullen, dressed in armour, crimson robes and a cloak lined with grey wolf fur, stiflingly warm, drew his hood up. As a born Ferelden, he fared the chill far better than the Antivans, Marchers, Orlesians and Rivaini – the northerners knew nothing of the cold.

Chantry sisters from the mainland stood a dais behind her pyre, reciting Canticles from the Chant of Light: Andraste, Benedictions, Transfigurations and Trials. Andrastian mages joined the sisters and Templars in singing hymns like _Andraste's Ashes_, _Eyes of the Maker_, _Heaven's Light_ and _The Dawn Will Come_.

Enchanter Irving said some final words as Circle leader and placed a flaming torch at Solona's feet. In moments, the fire lapping at the frosted logs ignited; ashes and snow dancing together in the grey sky. Cullen's nose crinkled; her burning flesh smelt awful, despite the oils and spices the Tranquil applied earlier. He stared as the flames licked at his beloved's blue-grey corpse. Her skin blistered and crackled and fell off the bones like leaves in the wind. But Cullen did not close his eyes or turn away. He couldn't.

Darkness fell; logs popped, sparks spiraled into the air and eventually, all that remained of Solona were ashes, gathered into a chest bearing the Amell family heraldry. She would be returned to her parents in Kirkwall, and buried in a cemetery for noble men and women. Cullen finally closed his eyes, said one prayer and followed his brethren inside for supper.

The Ferelden night was cold, dark and long, but soon the dawn would come; it always did.

_._

/Frozen Memories – 02

**Disclaimer: **Amell, Cullen and all _Dragon Age_-related characters are property of BioWare and EA Games.


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